Sketching a Thatcher

Bird-bones is on the roof. Seventy-eight
And still a ladder squirrel,
Three or four nitches at a time, up forty rungs,
Then crabbing out across the traverse,
Cock-crows of insulting banter, liberated
Into his old age, like a royal fool
But still tortured with energy. Thatching
Must be the sinless job. Weathered
Like a weathercock, face bright as a ploughshare,
Skinny forearms of steely cable, batting
The reeds flush, crawling, cliffhanging,
Lizard-silk of his lizard-skinny hands,
Hands never still, twist of body never still -
Bounds in for a cup of tea, ‘Caught you all asleep!’
Markets all the gossip – cynical old goblin
Cackling with wicked joy. Bounds out -
Trips and goes full length, bounces back upright,
'Haven’t got the weight to get hurt with!’ Cheers
Every departure - 'Off for a drink?’ and 'Off
To see his fancy woman again!’ - leans from the sky,
Sun-burned-out pale eyes, eyes bleached
As old thatch, in the worn tool of his face,
In his haggard pants and his tired-out shirt -
They can’t keep up with him. He just can’t
Stop working. 'I don’t want the money!’ He’d
Prefer a few years. 'Have to sell the house to pay me!’
Alertness built in to the bird stare,
The hook of his nose, bill-hook of his face.
Suns have worn him, like an old sun-tool
Of the day-making, and old shoe-tongue
Of the travelling weathers, the hand-palm, ageless,
Of all winds on all roofs. He lams the roof
And the house quakes. Was everybody
Once like him? He’s squirmed through
Some tight cranny of natural selection.
The nut-stick yealm-twist’s got into his soul,
He didn’t break. He’s proof
As his crusty roofs, He ladder-dances
His blood light as spirit. His muscles
Must be clean as horn.
And the whole house
Is more pleased with itself, him on it,
Cresting it, and grooming it, and slapping it
Than if an eagle rested there. Sitting
Drinking his tea, he looks like a tatty old eagle,
And his yelping laugh of derision
Is just like a tatty old eagle’s.